


The Adventure Of Mr. Vanderbilt And The Yeggman

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [51]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Anniversary, F/M, Framing Story, Hair, M/M, Money, Non-graphic mentions of (false) rape, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, Wales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 11:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15387537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock conjures up an imaginary North American spirit to deal with a Welsh crime duo who are trying to frighten a man into selling up to them. And Watson gets lucky at the bank – or does he?





	The Adventure Of Mr. Vanderbilt And The Yeggman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clara954](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clara954/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

This bizarre little case took my brother and his friend to the distant wilds of the Cambrian Hills at a difficult time for them both. On top of his other problems Mrs. Watson had been ill for a time, which must have brought back to the poor doctor horrible memories of his first wife. And Sherlock himself was dealing with the growing problem of Professor Moriarty, of which piece of vile filth more later. Hence a case which gave them both some time away from the capital was very welcome – even if it was a hair-raising experience!

Kean, I can _hear_ that eye-roll!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

In our later years together, one of the things that I knew upset my friend was my low (but accurate) opinion of my own skills in many areas, particularly those of his own detective work. Then again, I did miss something so obvious at this time that, looking back, even I should have felt a frisson of shame for not spotting what our friend Inspector Lestrade rightly called 'the bleedin' obvious'.

That particular month I faced an unexpected set of expenses when dear Mary fell ill. To me of course it brought back horrible memories of what had befallen Constance, and I insisted that she retire to a sanatorium in the countryside in which she might rest from her work in keeping house and home together. This was as you might imagine horribly expensive, and I saw little of Holmes for a couple of weeks as I worked every hour I could to make ends meet. When I fell asleep in the fireside chair at 221B he confronted me on the matter, and I explained why I was in such poor shape.

It really should have dawned on even someone as unobservant as myself that what happened just three days later was not the act of Providence that it at first seemed. Salvation seemingly came to me in the form of one Mr. Mark Cairney, a clerk who had been fired from his position at Cox's Bank where my account was held. What made this so fortuitous for me was that he managed all the 'professional' accounts in the city, and the bank knew that he had defrauded several of his clients but not yet which and by how much. Rather than face some horrendous publicity whilst they slowly worked out who had been swindled, they announced that they were depositing a sum of twenty-five pounds sterling into each of the renegade clerk's accounts, and would then increase this for anyone worse affected once they had finished a full investigation. Undoubtedly the best part – from my personal point of view – was that even for those who might turn out to be unaffected (and I doubted my own situation could have been much worse), they would get to keep the money. It was, quite literally, a godsend.

Before anyone asks, yes, I _was_ that gullible in those days. Gullible, and blest with the best friend in the whole wide world!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“How do you feel about Montgomeryshire?”

I looked at Holmes in surprise. I had come round to 221B feeling lighter than I had for some mornings, having received a letter from dear Mary that she was almost fully recuperated and would be home soon.

“That is one of the Marcher counties”, I answered. “Towards the north, opposite Shropshire. I have never been there, but I have read that the countryside is very beautiful.”

“I have received a somewhat uninformative letter from a gentleman in the village of Llangynog in that county”, Holmes said, scowling at the letter as if it had displeased him. “The name is certainly one of note; the gentleman is one Mr. Enoch Vanderbilt.”

“Like the American millionaires?” I asked, surprised. 

“He claims to be a cousin”, Holmes said thoughtfully. “It seems strange that someone with such an illustrious connection would take himself to the far end of a remote Welsh valley, although I suppose that the wealth may not reach as far as his particular branch of the family tree. How curious.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Mary had told me that she was due back in London the following Wednesday and happily the sanatorium in which she was recuperating was on our route to Wales, so I was able to put in an extra visit to her. She really did look well, and it was with a happy heart that I continued my way westwards, our reaching Crewe Junction shortly after lunch-time from where a Cambrian Railways train that looked rather questionable did however manage to get us to the station in a small village called Llynclys. From here we still faced a fifteen-mile coach trip to our destination, the Tanat Valley Railway would not come to pass for over a decade.

A long carriage ride brought us to Llangynog which turned out to be a most charming village. St. Cynog's church, snug behind its protective wall, had one of those squat little bell-towers that I quite liked architecturally speaking. The people we passed seemed friendly enough; I had read in the _“Times”_ that some in Wales had the same sort of dislike towards the English that certain more backwards parts of Scotland and Ireland exhibited, but there was none of that here.

Or so I first thought.

I did not know what I had been expecting from the house of someone from such a famous family as the Vanderbilts, but “Basilica House”, set in its own little nook a little way beyond the village, was definitely not it. It was a decent enough place I supposed, but little larger than the other cottages in the village. A millionaire's cousin lived here?

A dour-looking butler opened the door to us, bade us enter and installed us in what must have been one of the smallest waiting-rooms ever; our knees actually touched as we sat opposite each other. Fortunately there was only a short wait before we were summoned to the presence of Mr. Enoch Vanderbilt.

Although is is probably wrong of me to say it, the thing that struck me most forcibly about our client was the huge birthmark that covered most of his face. Society had thankfully progressed at least some way towards accepting such things by this time, but I began to have my first inklings as to why someone with his famous connections lived in such a remote area. He made us welcome and waited until the butler had departed before speaking.

“Thank you for coming”, he said, and I detected a faint American accent alongside the Welsh one. “From what I read about your adventure in Oxford Mr. Holmes, I know that you require all the facts and I have much to tell you.”

“Pray proceed”, Holmes said politely.

“To begin with”, our host said, “I should first answer your obvious question as to why I live out here, far from so-called 'civilization' and further still from my rich relations. As I am sure you know, the family fortune was founded by my uncle the late Mr. Cornelius Vanderbilt, who died some thirteen years ago. My father Jacob was his younger brother. Unfortunately there was a falling-out when Father married my mother, who was what they call 'a half-caste' from the Cape Colony. I think that Young Cornelius – now the current family head – would have preferred a complete break, but his grandfather of the same name, for all that he disapproved of the match, had been unmovable when it came to familial obligations, and he felt obliged to honour that wish.”

(I actually knew a little of the Vanderbilt family as my dear wife loved to read the social pages, and felt that this sort of attitude was doubly unjustified as I knew the origins of that family in the New Netherlands, what was later New York, actually included a lady of Berber origin).

“Matters were further complicated when my mother fell pregnant and then died giving birth to me”, our host said. “As you can see, I bear the severe facial disfigurement which, as I am sure you will understand, made it desirous that I not be seen out in what is termed 'polite society'. I suppose that in one way it made the break easier; the elder Cornelius was prepared to pay Father to go a long way away so that he did not 'disgrace' the family name.”

“May I ask, why Wales?” Holmes ventured. Our host smiled.

“My father was heartbroken after my mother's death”, he said. “He wanted to leave the United States, but had no idea where to go. My mother's sister, Aunt Magdalen, married a fisherman from Pennant which is in the hills not far from here. Her daughter Branwen still lives there; Magdalen had lost her own husband at sea and invited my father to come to the area. He settled in this place and died last year.”

“So why have you summoned us?” I asked. Our host's face darkened.

“You doubtless saw on your approach how the road past here makes a sharp right turn before reaching my abode”, he said. “Although this place may look small – and I am sure, given my family name, you must have expected much more – I own all the land around that corner. The county council wishes to build a small housing estate to the left as you approach, turning that corner into a T-junction. I have said that I am happy for this, as I will retain the small copse you saw between me and the new houses, plus the sharp corner is in my view rather dangerous as the trees limit the view on both approaches.”

“As is the way these days the council invited local building companies to tender for the new estate”, our host continued. “Two companies made bids in the end; Durham Brothers in the village and Davis and Davis, up in Llanrhaiadr. I could of course have sold the land to either of them – until the troubles began.”

“What troubles?” Holmes asked. 

“Girls in the village started to get attacked”, he said, frowning. “And very oddly the attacks happen only on Tuesdays, but not every Tuesday. In each case a girl reported that someone – someone with a balaklava – attacked the girl in question and only ran off when she screamed.”

“An attacker who is deterred by a woman's scream”, Holmes said dubiously. “Unusual, if not unbelievable.”

He thought for a moment.

“There is someone else in all this”, he said. “Who is it?”

“The doctor undersells your powers in his stories”, our host smiled. “Durham Brothers is owned by a Mr. Ivor Durham and he has but one daughter Eleanor, who is heiress to the company. And it was shortly after we began negotiations for the sale that the attacks started.”

“You suspect Mr. Durham?” I asked. He shook his head.

“His business dealings are known to be very honest”, he said. “That is one reason that he has been so successful. But his daughter is another matter, I am afraid, and with his poor health of late she has been taking a leading role in matters.”

“But surely you could just sell to the other company?” I asked. Mr. Vanderbilt shook his head.

“That is what makes me so suspicious about Miss Durham”, he said. “The Llanrhaiadr firm is run by Mr. Elijah Davis and he is what they call 'very High Church'. If there is even a smidgeon of suspicion about my involvement in these attacks, he will not deal.”

“Thus allowing Miss Durham's firm to be the sole purchaser and in a position to therefore offer a lower price”, Holmes said, pressing his long fingers together. “Most interesting.”

“Can you help me at all?” our host asked urgently.

“The facts of the matter are clear enough”, Holmes said. “But proving it may be another thing entirely. I shall have to wire a contact in London for some help in this matter.”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Late on Monday Holmes received a package from London. Annoyingly he would not tell me what was in it and proposed a walk down through the village, presumably in the hope that it would distract me. I would like to say that I was not so easily led, but it would have been a lie.

As I said Llangynog was a small village and possessed of but a single tavern. I had been in there the day before and had quickly learnt that the locals had the sort of nosiness of which our London police friends would have doubtless approved. When I had said that my friend and I were just visiting the area to take some air I was greeted with barely concealed incredulity. Two of them had however read my story about the “Gloria Scott” and said that they had liked it so at least they showed good taste.

The one new thing we discovered was that Miss Durham was currently seeing a local man, a Mr. Evan Davies, whose sister was one of the girls who had been attacked. Holmes, who could be quite social when he wanted, soon singled out Mr. Davies, a rat-faced young man to whom I took an instant dislike. I considered that he might do well to marry Miss Durham, who was also there and had made a similarly poor impression on me. I know that one cannot expect high fashion from country girls, but she seemed to be trying for what might be termed 'the manly look', and it ill-suited her. I knew that she was heiress to a business, but she did not have to try to look like a man!

Holmes spent some time talking to young Mr. Davies (it depressed me that, teetering as I was at the wrong end of my fourth decade of life, I considered such a person 'young') before rejoining me at the bar. My friend spent some time holding forth on a study he had done into different types of werewolves and ancient spirits, which I thought an odd choice of conversation. But then he was an odd duck at times, even if he was a genius.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

On Tuesday morning I woke at a noise outside. Looking out I saw Mr. Vanderbilt leaving the house, and thought it odd that he turned left along the road rather than right. I knew that there was no easy way round if one wanted to head towards England as that road led into the mountains. Perhaps he was going to see his sister up in Pennant, but at this ungodly hour? 

The morning passed uneventfully; we did not go out as it was one of those on-off drizzly days. The afternoon was a little better but still cold, and I preferred to stay in and read. Holmes said that we would have to make shift to get our own food that day as the servants would not be coming in for some reason. I thought nothing of that either and decided to read my book for a while, hoping that there would be no attack that evening.

I was about to suggest that we turn in for the night when Holmes surprised me by saying that he wanted to take a walk into the village. It was drizzling again if intermittently and I really did not want to go, but I sensed that there was more to his request that a desire to experience Welsh as opposed to English rain, so I pulled on my coat and followed him. 

I had assumed that we were making for the tavern and a late night drink, but we did not make it. A dark figure loomed up ahead of us as we passed the church, the rain dripping off his uniform.

“Ah, Constable Griffiths”, Holmes smiled pleasantly, as if he had been expecting a policeman to pop up out of the dark (he probably had been, the know-all). “May I suggest that we adjourn to your station, as it is much nearer than the cottage?”

The policeman looked at us uncertainly. 

“As you wish, sir”, he said. “I was coming to see your Mr. Vanderbilt.”

Holmes said nothing until we were inside the police station which, fortuitously, was just a few houses down. Once he had removed his coat and sat down, he smiled at the policeman.

“Who had been attacked?” he asked bluntly. “Miss Durham?”

The policeman was at once visibly suspicious.

“How might you be knowing that, sir?” he asked warily. “I have only just come from the lady in question.”

“Because I rather expected her to be attacked this rainy evening”, Holmes smiled. 

The policeman stared at him, dumbfounded. Holmes sat back and relaxed.

“Since it is a Tuesday, I had a feeling that someone might try to frame poor Mr. Vanderbilt for a further attack today”, he said. “In the tavern yesterday I made a point of telling several people that he was planning to sell up and move to the North, and that the whole thing would most likely be accomplished in little more than a fortnight, possibly even a week. And that he had a potential buyer for his cottage, a factory owner from St. Helens in Lancashire who wished to use it as a retirement home, plus he would be selling him the adjoining land as well.”

The policeman looked perplexed.

“Why would you have done all that, sir?” he asked.

“I wished to force the hand of the person behind the attacks”, Holmes said. “If they thought that the person they were attempting to ruin might evade them, then they would have to strike on what might be the only Tuesday left to them, namely tonight.”

“Miss Durham has been attacked, sir”, the constable admitted. “In the woods, not far from Mr. Vanderbilt's cottage. I shall have to interview him.”

“You will have to wait, I am afraid”, Holmes said with a smile. “This morning Mr. Vanderbilt took a carriage to Llynclys, where he caught a train bound for London. He is seeing a doctor friend of mine and will be spending tonight at a hotel there.” He handed the policeman a folded piece of paper. “This is the name of that hotel; you are perfectly at liberty to wire them and to ask if what I have said is true.”

The constable stared at the piece of paper. He must have known that Holmes would not venture such a thing if it could not have been backed up. 

“It seems that he is in the clear then, sir”, he said warily. “But Miss Durham still says that she was attacked.”

Holmes smiled.

“I am not a betting man, constable”, he said slowly. “But I would wager a small sum on the following. Once you have told her that Mr. Vanderbilt could not be her attacker, Miss Durham will decide that she does not wish for the matter to be pursued.”

“Sir?”

“And you might do me one small favour whilst you are about on your rounds?”

“What is that, sir?”

“If you happen to encounter a 'hairy' gentleman in your travels later tonight, kindly direct him to the cottage!”

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“Will I need my gun?” I asked anxiously once we were back at the cottage. He shook his head. 

“In this case you would more likely need a razor!” he said mysteriously. I shook my head in confusion.

Fortunately I did not have long to be annoyed with him, for barely five minutes after our return, there was a loud knocking at the cottage door. Holmes pressed his finger to his lips, then went to open it.

It was Mr. Evan Davies. And his face was covered in hair!

“You have to help me, doctor!” he pleaded, staggering into the cottage. “I have....”

“Be silent!” Holmes demanded. The man shook, but obeyed.

“You are here tonight because you did something both deceitful and dishonest”, Holmes said coldly. “Watson may officially be a doctor of medicine, but he and I share a common interest in, shall we say, some of the more dubious aspects of religion.”

Did we?

“Sirs?”

“If you keep interrupting then I shall not be able to tell you how to get rid of the curse”, Holmes said angrily. “You will stay like this for the rest of your life!”

The man all but collapsed into a chair by the table, whining piteously. I made some fake notes but kept silent.

“Now”, Holmes said, “I am going to share something with you. In tangling with Mr. Vanderbilt – that is not his real name, of course – you chose the wrong target. Had you applied at least a modicum of common sense, you would have asked yourself what someone with such an illustrious name was doing up the far end of a Welsh Valley, thousands of miles from the family wealth. Unfortunately for you, you have no sense.”

“Sir!”

“Some time ago Mr. Vanderbilt – I shall not say his real name for fear of invoking the same sort of 'trouble' that you have very evidently brought upon yourself - dabbled in certain preternatural matters that, had he have had any sense, he would have steered well clear of”, Holmes said, sounding bitter. “As I am sure you are aware, the great continent of North America is even now still being opened up, and all sorts of strange heathen beliefs are being encountered. Most of them are pure mumbo-jumbo, but occasionally there are certain deities that still retain some of their terrifying old powers. Mr. Vanderbilt chose to try to communicate with one of them. His face, and the fact that he subsequently had to leave the country of his birth, tells you all too clearly the result.”

“But I am all....”

“I can easily turn you out in the rain if you keep interrupting”, Holmes said exasperatedly. Our visitor quailed, and managed to pull in on himself even more. Holmes coughed before continuing.

“Unhappily for your good self this particular spirit is easy to summon, but almost impossible to get rid of”, Holmes said. “Their word for it, in the Native Tongue of the Red Indian tribe that lives in the region, is 'Yeggman'. It sounds harmless and, if left alone, usually is. Unfortunately like all gods it has a key interest – and that interest is in bringing down the full weight of justice upon those who bear false witness.”

“No! Sirs!”

“You and Miss Durham planned this whole ramp”, Holmes said crossly. “She knew that if Mr. Vanderbilt was linked to the attacks then her rival company up in Llanrhaiadr would not deal with him, and she could then offer a much lower price for the land. Thinking that he was going to sell to someone else and move away you had to strike tonight, which was why you chose Miss Durham as the victim.”

“No!”

“I am sure that the other ladies – including your own sister - who were 'attacked', were in fact paid handsomely for their roles in this ramp”, Holmes glowered. “Even more unfortunately for you, you chose to do the attacks on Tuesdays, when the power of the Yeggman is always at its greatest. Tell me Mr, Davies, how old are you?”

“Sir?”

Holmes tutted at him.

“I do not ask these questions for my health!” he snapped. “I ask them for your own, whilst you still have it. Kindly answer!”

“Twenty-four, sir”, the man managed.

“That is the first good thing that has happened to you tonight”, Holmes said. “For all that there is no medical cure for the curse there is a spiritual one, provided you are not yet thirty years of age. You must immediately go to Constable Griffiths and confess all, then beg him to allow you to spend the night praying in the church. _If_ you can stay awake in the House of God through a Wednesday sunrise then the curse itself will be lifted, although its effects will take some days to leave you. And talking of leaving, may I suggest that you do just that?”

The man actually fought with the door to get through it, scrambling out into the rain. And he was gone.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

“'The Yeggman'?” I chuckled. “Really?”

“Lestrade told me it once”, he smiled. “It is a word used by certain members of the criminal classes for a safe-breaker.”

I shook my head at him.

“How did Mr. Davies end up in that state?” I asked.

“Remember that he and I drank together that evening at the pub?” Holmes asked. “The package that I had sent from London was from your friend Doctor Moore Agar, whom we helped out only recently. He sent me a solution which, twenty-four hours after imbibing, causes the body to break out in hair. All I had to do was slip it into Mr. Davies' drink.”

“So he did not have to spend all night praying, then?” I asked.

“Good for the soul”, Holmes said shortly. “And everyone in the village will get to see his new look over the next few days. Now, I shall stay here and greet Mr. Vanderbilt upon his return but you will need to be up early tomorrow morning?”

“Why?” I asked, puzzled.

“Because you need to reach a certain station in Buckinghamshire in time to collect a certain spouse?” he suggested.

As I said, there were some reasons for keeping him around.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Postscriptum: I later learnt that old Mr. Durham, having been shocked by his daughter's complicity in the matter, seemingly did nothing – until he died the following year and she found to her horror that he had written her out of his will completely. I believe that she decided to emigrate to India, to whom I suppose we owe a small apology. Mr. Evan Davies quitted the Tanat Valley for Cardiff and was neither seen nor heard from again. In neither case could their departures be considered a loss._

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
